
^hmhiAvtcdslxulmtmi Weak' 



"He whom Thou Lowest 

is Sick." 



BY 

RO^ P£j '_" LET N CHILE 

Author af ki Down among tke Crackerz." 




'A 

.- 

... _ 



Mi'** 



Copyright, 1903, 

BY 

ROSA PENDLETON CHILES. 



All Rights Reserved. 






TO THE MEMORY OF 



My flDotber, 



THE THOUGHT OF WHOSE MARVELOUS STRENGTH 
AND PATIENCE IN LONG SUFFERING, WHEN SUR- 
CEASE CAME, LEFT THE ONLY FRAGRANCE IN THE 
HEART OF A CHILD, AND YET YIELDS FRAGRANCE 
TO THE HEART OF A WOMAN. 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 


Two Cepies Received 

MAY 18 1904 


Copyright Entry 

,^ / - • ^ c * 
CLASS a XXc. No. 

o 5 o -; -) 

COPY B 



PREFACE. 

There seems a tendency of late, especially 
among a class of so-called religious teachers, to 
minify pain, and the beautiful service of those to 
whom the Master appoints no other than patient 
endurance of steadfast suffering. To these extreme 
thinkers the patient invalid, resting beneath the 
shadow of unceasing pain, is a mental criminal, 
whose logic has in some way become entangled with 
a diseased imagination, and who has but to say, 
"There is no pain, therefore I cannot rest beneath 
the shadow of it," and immediately his conclusion 
will bring him to a state of perfect health. 

Without formulating any syllogism to disprove 
the tenets of this extraordinary doctrine, I wish only 
to say that to one whose faith rests upon different 
principles the teaching seems altogether false, and 
to offer this little book to all suffering folk in loving 
sympathy. If there is aught in these lines that 
speaks to you of courage, patience, faithful endur- 
ance, and that enables you to see your part in a better 
light — the light of peculiar dignity, and of that 

5 



peculiar choice for you of a part that suits the 
mysterious development of your spirit better than 
any other part could do — I shall feel that the 
Master gave me a beautiful task in the writing of 
these lines. Take them as the message of my heart 
to yours, and I trust the warm love that fills my 
soul for all of you who suffer — whether through 
the sensitive nerves or in another way — may find 
its course through this little poem to the depths of 
feeling in your own souls. Perhaps I shall never 
know whether my message does you good or not, 
but my Father will, and that is all that is needful. 

These lines are not meant to glorify pain, but 
to beautify it, and to make those whose lives are 
shut in from the great world of activity by shades 
of pain or uncommon care, aye, common care, as 
well, feel that they are shut in for the Master's use. 
You see, dear hearts, the active ones are so busy that 
the Master may not always draw them into soulful 
conferences, but you — you know better than I could 
tell you the hourly reminders of that Presence that 
whispers the secrets of abiding peace. He is your 
Comforter, and you are His. 

Rosa Pendleton Chiles. 



"He whom Thou Lovest is Sick." 

I was of late ill in a hospital, 

And there Fra Ugo Bassi's sermon read, 

That blessed sermon of the Vine, and as 

I read, drank wine of healing the Vine bled 

For broken spirits when in sacrifice 

It hung stripped of its purple fruit. Then, given 

In an infinite compassion, a strength 

Of body returned with the spirit's strength, 

That the sickened branch might the longer last 

And seek in the Vine more abundant life. 

And as the frail soul hung between earth-life — 

A span at most — and that eternal stretch 

Of time beyond it, while spring birds sang trills 

Of hope, nor lent to requiem their notes, 

Thought dwelt upon the Living Vine that bids 

Its branches bear unstinting fruitage, while 

They draw the fullness and the strength of life 

From the Parent Stem, until spreading wide 

In vivid beauty, the waving garlands 

Shall cover hill and dale, and plenteous 

In strength, yield purple clusters to refresh 

7 



The nations. Then, because the earth lacks warmth 
To bring to richer fruitage, some day, wrapped 
About the Central Stem, the branches shall 
Be drawn for perfecting where are the soil 
And sunlight needed for perennial growth. 

Then earnestly I thought of how at last, 
When earth shall know no more the Healing Vine, 
No more its tendrils wave in the cool air, 
No more its graceful fruit in crimson tides 
Flow from the wine-press, barren boughs shall be 
Cut off, and prayed with fervent yearnings such 
As I, wrapped in my agony, might last 
When the day of this transplanting shall come. 
And here my thoughts, though broken as the life 
Then bound to narrow couch of pain, I write 
For others that are fettered to their beds, 
And dreaming of life in the Living Vine. 

I learned 'tis not always the sickened branch 
That is most barren, nor need any fear 
The knife because its tendrils droop from lack 
Of strength to stand erect. Perchance the sap 
That would have gone to these has gone instead 
To fruit, and where lie low the sickly stem 
And leaf, lie also, freighted to the earth 
By wealth of bearing, ripened clusters which 
Await their hour to burst in scarlet streams 

8 



Of healing. Then fret not frail branch if leaves 

Green as the bay's beside thee flourish; for, 

A few short days the yellowed tendrils droop 

Under the fevered kisses of the sun, 

And there is lack of moisture to cool 

The slender veins, and then the Husbandman 

Will come and cast aside not boughs that parch 

And wilt above the fullness of their fruit, 

But those that by their side bear only leaves. 

Tis naught that green boughs lift their heads in 

pride 
Of strength, yet bear no fruit; for sick or well, 
The fruit must yield and be alone the test 
Of what shall live. But think not to escape 
The Pruner's knife, thou fruitful bough, for once 
It was declared, "Each branch in me that bears 
No fruit He takes away, and every branch 
That bears He purges, that this one may bear 
More fruit." So sharp may fall the painful blade 
Upon thy stock, and leave for all thy fruit 
A bleeding stalk. Dost feel a quiver? Wait, 
The bearing time will come again. 

But yet 
The vine, with all its wealth of life and strength 
Of sacrifice, is not the only form 
To which the Master likens you. By this 
He speaks to men of vital life and wine 



That flows in offering, but when Christ shows 

The world the steadfast, settled character 

Of those, who "having done all, stand" in strength 

And majesty immutable, He calls 

Himself the Builder and his children stones — 

The signs of changelessness. Now, grapes are 

type 
Of sacrifice, because the glory and 
Perfection of their life they yield to him 
Who treads the wine-press, but the crystal that 
Strong pressure in the cycles of its past 
Has fixed in permanence, yields not again. 

And now beloved, if we are to be 
Stones in that human Temple, let us have 
The quality of stones, nor break, but bear 
The pressure of our place, nor seek to choose 
That place, but only rest secure and firm 
In any portion of the wall assigned 
Us by the Architect Divine — the joy 
And honor of a stone is to be used 
At all. 

That Temple of Humanity, 
Erected by Divinity, will have 
Magnificence with which all lavishness 
Of Byzantine and Moorish was but work 
Of children when illusive form and tint 

10 



Once trembling sped through Fancy's train, and 

each 
Well chosen stone will be the fairest where 
It lies, but if there architrave and frieze 
And cornice be, with sculptures fret, and here, 
Where little pressure is on stones that form 
The Temple's flower and finish, we find not 
Our place, then let us be content to bear 
The insistent pressure of middle walls. 
Some stones are meant for ornament, but some 
For other use, and which for each the stones 
Know not, but wait upon the Builder's choice. 
Of this alone the human block may be 
Assured — that He who builds can never err, 
But chooses as is fittest for the stone 
And for the Temple. If thy place is found 
In hidden niches of the inner wall, 
'Tis here the greatest strength is asked and thou 
Art chosen for an honored part. Think not 
With envy on the fretted block, for thou 
Wouldst spoil the frieze, and that would spoil the 

wall. 
Nor think identity to lose when sealed 
Forever to those blocks whose semblance so 
Makes thee one with them that none may declare 
Wherein thy mission differs from the part 
Of stones that hem thee in, and each to each 
Cemented, ye make up the common mass. 

ii 

'LofC. 



The Spirit of the Temple fills each block 
With fervent life, distinct from all beside, 
Nor dwells alone in Psychic form of frieze 
Or cornice. Why lament the part assigned? 
Consider, murmurer: no capital 
Or architrave but bears the heat and light, 
Ay, oft the tempest, too; as well to bear 
The pressure. 

It is not for souls, to whom 
Belongs the majesty of endless part, 
To mar that part with murmur; as the part 
Must live, so must the murmur live and be 
The sours companion in its later sphere. 
Are there no fitter ones? Yea, let your choice 
Of all be suited to the endlessness 
That lies before you; nor, beloved, may 
Ye think of ease or joy of place, but as 
The branches of the Living Vine, think e'er 
Of sacrifice; and as the stones that make 
That Living Temple, think of strength to bear. 

Dear heart, that longs for outer life, to have 
The angel of the breeze caress you and 
The dews of night your fevered throbs to cool, 
Fret not ; your place is safe from cares that tent 
Themselves about those outer lives and spread 
Gray mists of trouble you may never know 

12 



Above them. Seems your portion bitter? Theirs 
Is not all sweet. If in the chamber whose 
Dull walls are echoes of your murmurings; 
A voice should whisper, "All is changed, the bonds 
Of pain are loosed," and straight the life should seek 
The gilded ways of freedom, then would all 
Be well ? Nay, for activity's fierce clasp 
Might bind you closer than now bind your pain 
And helplessness. 

Lie still, beloved, for 
The lot is ever measured to the need; 
That need that cries without the mystery 
Of universal plan to the one life, 
And only one, that can its wants supply, 
That need that cries without your inner soul 
For place supplied in universal plan. 
Hast never learned that in that plan our lives 
Are made to do or bear, as in the veins 
Of each there flow the pallid tides of pain 
Or crimson tides of action? Not all wine 
Of life is red, not all red wine the best, 
But each the product of a perfect fruit. 
The streams of labor and of suffering 
Flow side by side, nor may we always know 
Which current better serves the world; this God 
Sees now, and we must wait to see. Yet this 
Is plain — one river or the other flows 
In ev'ry living vein. What matter which ? 

13 



God gives the world an angel for each need 
To watch above the lives of men in joy 
Or woe or rest or work, and all the earth 
Is shadowed by their presence. But He gives 
The angel of service only two wings, 
And one forever shelters those who all 
Their strength from crimson dawn to silver night 
Bestow on field and mart, while tenderly 
The other rests o'er those that give their strength 
From dawn to night and night to dawn to bear 
The pain that stills from work. No life but seeks 
Its shelter from the pinion shadowing 
The field of labor, but 'tis not for lives 
To choose, theirs only to accept the shade 
That rests above them, and to pray for strength 
To go forth gladly to the way of work 
Or pain. What right have souls to shrink from 

tasks 
Assigned them? Theirs alone to stand supreme 
In silence, as those who need not themselves 
To choose, but rest beneath the choice of One 
Who knows the part, and him who best can fill 
It. 

Souls, come get you to your place, and if 
You watch the sky for portents, think not that 
The soft white mass which rests above, and waves 
Of mist to sunward dipping, gathers all 
The gold into its bosom, is storm-cloud 

H 



And charged to deliver bolts of wrath. 

It is an angel's shadow, and clear writ 

Upon its wings to all who read is this 

Sweet message : "God knows who can do and who 

Can bear' ; for Consolation is the twin 

Of Care, and wheresoever Pain shall lead, 

Ye sick ones, sore blinded by the dense fog 

Of your murmurings, and who closer press 

The thorns that prick you while you ever seek 

Release, will Solace follow on and cry: 

"This asks the Lord of you who knows how much 

To ask of each." Perchance He would not ask 

As much of one whose life was kissed to light 

By the same dawn, or trust that one as well 

To bear it. Yea, sure evidence and mark 

Of His divinity is marvelous 

Economy in power creative, so 

That beings looking first into the dawn 

Of life, yet purpled by the night through which 

They came, have each their own peculiar force 

And fitness for some task no other could 

Perform. Perchance not one of all the hosts 

That walk the strenuous ways of this world, 

Flushed with the wine of energy and strength, 

Or those that dwell in myriad other worlds 

Of space illimitable, ever glad 

In mystic labors hid behind the point 

Of trembling splendor in the midnight dome, 

15 



Could bear thy lot so well as thou. He gives 
His confidence for this to thee alone,. 
Then dare thou fail, or trust supreme as this 
Betray? Nay, heart, bear on, bear well. 

Look down 
The vista of past centuries at One 
Who 'mid the jeers and mocking of the mob, 
The doubts of followers, the mighty weight 
Of inner cross, when all the harmony 
Of His eternal past was shocked by note 
Of discord shrill, bore patiently His cross, 
And left a crimson path to mark the way 
For all who follow Him. Look, heart, and see 
The scarlet thread that leads to Calvary, 
Then follow gladly in its narrow course, 
As one who knows the dignity of rank, 
The glory of a royal road. 

Yea, souls, 
Must we each one stop in the onward rush 
Of our life and see if we follow close 
The blood-stained way, or if in weakness we 
Have turned aside to other paths, which lead 
Not to Golgotha and to life. Now as 
We look by-paths are filled with souls astray; 
While some aweary from the long, long way 
Have laid their burdens down for respite, there 
Are others, guilt-stained more, who wander far 

16 



And gather here and there wild flowers, fair 

To see, but yet distilling poison 

Of sin and death, while butterflies with wings 

Of gauze and prismic hued drink from their cups 

And flutter in death on the heads of all 

Who pluck. One calls, they answer not, and calls 

Again, "My cross I bear." Dear Lord, forgive 

That while Thou mountest that dark steep where 

Pain 
Shall run through flesh and soul and ply its course 
To sever into twain Thy carnate life 
From that eternal fleshless one, and thrust 
Its knives in keenest revelry where once 
Alone is given Pain to play in power 
And wantonness supreme, we wander on 
In lightsome ways, nor care that Thou Thy cross 
Dost bear while we bear not our own. 

And now 
I beg you, ye sick ones, who marvel that 
The angel of Ease brings you no surcease 
Of pain, to come with me to Galilee 
And learn how Christ in days of ministry 
On earth then dealt with one He loved when Death 
Stretched forth his hands to take him for his own. 
So prone we are to feel that when He walked 
Incarnate here glad flowers of healing sprang 
To life where'er His footsteps fell, while now 

17 



Men see the thorn and myrtle tree alone 

Spring from His tracks when Christ comes down 

unseen 
To walk the way of life with us. And thus 
Is sown the seed of envy in our hearts 
Of those who touched His garment's hem and felt 
The pulses quicken into joyous life 
From virtue in the healing contact; but 
YVhate'er our envy and our murmurings. 
In that far distant time, as ever now. 
The course of justice, with its source in God, 
Flows on — a stream that knows no tides, nor floods 
One spot to verdant life and barren leaves 
Another. Healing for one life and pain 
For one, but justice and unfailing love 
For both. 

Xow while Semitic murmurings 
Sweep storm-gusts o'er His path and Eastern skies 
Reverberate with Jewish thunder, now 
While tempest whiffs and tongues of lightning smite 
The sides of Calvary, the glory and 
The strength of measureless sacrifice cast 
A halo o'er the Master's life, yet we. 
All blinden to the lambent gleam, see but 
The Man of Love walk gently on His way 
And wear the majesty of matchless aim 
As humbly as the peasant wears his cloak. 

18 



And now when comes transcendent aim to fruit 
And fullness we see Him in Galilee, 
Not many days' journey from Bethany, 
And there He hears this all-pathetic cry : 
"He whom Thou lovest, Lord, is sick." Have ye, 
Hearts, not received a message like to this? 
Have ye no room whose shades have once been 

drawn, 
While shades of death their blackness cast — a veil 
'Tween soul and soul? Then, groping, did you try 
To pierce the gloom and let the sunlight through, 
The fragrance, and the poetry of life, 
As if the past could have no end? But gloom 
Like this, impervious to ev'ry sense 
Of man, enveloped you 'til fell the calm 
Of resignation on your souls, and you 
Could see the angel's face, nor dreaded more 
The shadow of his wing. 

Ah ! hearts, sad hearts 
Of loving memories, were ye far off 
When whispered in your ear the fatal word? 
Then how like years seemed days that interposed 
Between you and that distant one! Nay, days 
Were not, but nights, for shades of sorrow shut 
Out light, nor know we day has ever been 
Save in the thought of years now past when he 
We love was not sick, nor were we far off. 

19 



Was your pain great when mind and heart had 

grasped 
The meaning of the message? Think you then 
The Master felt no sting because Death claimed 
His friend? 

When ye were called to walk the vale 
That slopes from heights of life to waters which 
Ne'er beat their banks but with an echo we 
Cannot interpret, hearing the swift strokes 
Of speechless oarsmen, and knowing your loved 
Should be borne to the land whose visions have 
Not met your sight, and you must stand alone 
On the dread shore, nor even cool your brow 
In the mysterious flood at your feet, 
Did not a cry escape you : "Lord, I can 
Not reach again the heights of peace if Thou 
Go not with me"? And straight did not He make 
His presence known, and whisper vital words 
Of tenderness with hand to hand and heart 
To heart, retracing with you all the vale 
Of woe to hills of joy beyond it? Can 
It be that He who feels the prick of thorns 
That sting us, and when dews of sorrow bathe 
Our brows, His own lays bare to the same mist, 
That He who from the fount of all our joy 
Or woe drinks deep, would not have us respond 
With sympathetic concept to the claims 

20 



That bring the heart of God to grief? The power 

And majesty of God sit throned on heights 

That we cannot approach, but once begirt 

By human limits that mighty All-Soul 

Was bound to earth, and note of tenderness 

Awoke that sings the longing of God's heart 

For tones in us responsive. Was it naught 

To Christ that He must suffer Lazarus 

To bear that last unconquerable pain 

When power was His to stay the blade of death? 

The might of God is shown not more in things 

He has the power to do, than in the things 

He does, but has the power not to do ; 

And here is seen the only limit which 

Omnipotence has placed upon itself — 

The pain to exercise its power. 

How sweet 
Had been that peaceful home, set in the side 
Of Olivet, and nursed by Southern breeze 
And sun ! There was reserved for Him one spot 
Alone of rest and joy serenely sweet 
Upon the planet of His wanderings, 
Where freed from gory grasp of strife He let 
The fount of love in simple hearts bathe all 
The wounds that stung and all the weariness 
That palled. Here were three friends set in the mass 
Of enemies as jewels in a mine 
Of dross, and one of these was sick. 

21 



To one 
Who holds no bond more close all tenderness 
Is given bonds of friendship, and their threads 
As surely bind as stronger cords that draw 
Hearts closer and in drawing oft give pain. 
Last night I dreamed, and lo! a flood of light 
That dazzled eyes accustomed not to more 
Than tropic glare. The cause I sought and found 
Angelic form diffused the radiance — 
A ray of heaven's light had borne to earth 
Its messenger — and as I trembling looked 
Upon the form within that radiance, 
A voice said, "Child, fear not, but answer me — 
Believest thou in compensation?" Then 
I thought of all whose lives seem poorly paid 
For sorrow and for care, and answered, "Yea, 
In heaven." "But now?" bespoke the messenger. 
Again did vision of some human woe 
The motive give to my conception, and 
I gave reply, "Nay, nay, not here; in heaven." 
"But what means this?" the angel said, and lo! 
Without the radiance stood one who long 
Had been beside me in each wearing care, 
In all my blind mistakes, to help and soothe 
Me in the fever of my living. "Child, 
Behold thy friend," the angel said, "the Lord 
Of heaven had no more than this when here — 
Believest now ?" "Yea, now," unfaltering, 

22 



I said, "I know that heaven is not all 
Of our compensation, for much comes here." 
Now friendship, heart, is compensation's gift 
For closer bonds ne'er made or lost. 

Dear heart, 
When the raven of sorrow bore to thee 
Its message writ in woe, didst tarry long? 
Nay, nay, but envied the bird, and made 
All haste, while o'er the soul swept waves of fear 
That chilled the faith to freezing; but the Lord 
Two days abode in the place where He was 
Before He turned His steps to Bethany. 
How gladly would His love have taken wings 
Of spirit speed, had not a voice cried, "Nay, 
Abide, my glory must be wrought in death 
As well as life." As man, the love of man 
Swept o'er His soul in tides of anguish, but 
As God, the love of God spoke calm and peace 
To the hot floods of human feeling. Thou 
Couldst not have staid? Nay, heart, but in thy 

depths 
Is only human flood, and thine the strength 
Of mortals, broken by rush of mad waves, 
And God can do what thou canst not. Hast said 
To thyself in wonderment: "God is good, 
Yet suffers agony to tear the heart 
And crush the life," and hast allowed black doubt 

23 



To close in struggle with thy faith until 
The Night of Unbelief her draperies 
Of darkness has let fall upon the field 
Of battle, wrapping folds of deep despair 
About the soul? Then cease this struggle, heart, 
And know that God does much beyond the power 
Of man to understand. Why try to bound 
Omnipotence by human concept? Thou 
Who reasonest, hast fathomed all the mind 
Of God? Nay, in this present world God walks 
Beside us hand to hand and heart to heart, 
But mind to mind alone in heaven. "Be still, 
And know that I am God," — He suffers us 
To know, and this is all — sufficient, too, 
Can the frail bird that skims the air and rests 
Its pinion on a twig of bush or tree, 
The while with mellow strain it charms a child 
At play, know aught of all that fills that mind — 
Its plans of play or dreams of might? Or can 
The child, who, tired of game and song of bird, 
Now comes and rests its head upon thy knee, 
Know aught of all that stirs and thrills thy life, 
Or measure the motives that move the minds 
Of men? Dost try, frail human mind, to know 
Thy God? 

If thou inexorable front 
Of Pain couldst see in furrowed segment cut 

24 



On brow of child or friend, as Suffering 

His image traced in the warm flesh, and thou 

The sculptor and the chisel couldst thrust out 

With one stroke of the hand, and see once more 

The lineless beauty of that brow, wouldst wait? 

Nay, for man's strength is far too frail, but God 

Can wait 'til Pain his last and boldest line 

Has traced, and through that stress of agony 

His marvelous design fulfills ; for know, 

O heart, the strength of all is fixed in need. 

What need have we to know the power that lets 

Pain trace his image in the tender flesh 

Of one we love? Is Pain responsible 

To us? Are we the censors of his work? 

God gives man strength in draughts that meet man's 

need, 
Nor suffers him to drain the fount nor see 
Its inner depths of ruby flood. On Mount 
Moriah Abram one potation drank, 
And raised aloft his blade to smite the son 
In whom lay mystery of nations' life, 
In whom lay also love's fair promise. But 
Death's sting lasts only while the knife falls back 
And life's tide flows into eternity's. 
God knew how much to ask of Abraham, 
And ever knows how much to ask of you. 
You could not for a day hold firm thumb-screw 
Or rack to torture your worst enemy; 

25 



The soul of Anguish, with its blood-stained gaze 
Searching your soul for respite, would wring cry 
Of pain from you : "Stop ! stop ! I cannot bear 
To see thee longer/' But the Lord, biding 
An hour when some frail life shall lay aside 
The aching garment of the flesh, and wrapped 
In robes of finer fabric, glor'ous trail 
In eternity's halls, can hold for years 
With iron grasp the trembling, aching, tired, 
And dying nerves of one He loves far more 
Than thou hast ever loved thy dearest here, 
Till these, exhausted long, at last beat out, 
And God's great plan for that small life is wrought. 

I watched a life apart from pain and thought 
How beautiful the soul that dwells in form 
Like this, whose organs, free from SufFring's whip, 
Move only at the call of joyous Good — 
A flawless agency through which the will 
Of God may work in all the varied forms 
Of action; and yet fruitless flitted days 
And weeks, and lay the listless hands, as cold 
And motionless as stone, within her lap. 
Again I saw this one, but lo! the face, 
Once artist's dream, in all its curves wore marks 
Of tort'rous pain, yet flowed the warm blood as 
From hearts that feel, in ev'ry vein, and now 
Rare virtues none had seen before shone forth 

26 



So all beheld and loved a life like this. 
Is this the way He speaks through all ? Nay, not 
Through all, but some. If thou, dear heart, art one, 
Be thankful. Stretch forth now thy arms and they 
Will touch thy Lord, so close He lives to one 
Whose form is clasped by pain. No one of all 
His minist'rings of grace His presence needs 
So much, nor trusts He saint nor angel, but 
The Lord keeps for Himself the priceless task 
Of biding with the sick. 

And thou couldst not 
Have tarried when a friend lay dying? Yea, 
Humanity is borne upon the wings 
Of Love to meet its sorrow — greater he 
Who bids his sorrow wait on slower flight 
Of Wisdom, for Love sees the cause alone, 
Nor waits upon effects, while Wisdom looks 
Beyond and sees eternal ends. Canst count 
The souls now glorified because the Lord 
Unsealed the grave at Bethany? Canst mark 
The power of consequence? "To the intent 
Ye should believe and God be glorified," 
He said. What mattered then that death? As 

naught, 
And yet as much — so much that "Jesus wept," 
For though at times, in mystery divine, 
Full hard and crushing seemeth God's strong hand, 

27 



And long we seek some freedom from it, then 

That great Heart throbs in love transcending far 

The love of women, fonder than the love 

Of mothers when they first imprint a kiss 

Upon the cheek of new-born babe, and thrills 

With passionate feeling for all the life 

Of Anguish in our veins. No quiv'ring nerve 

But draws Him closer in embrace of love 

And strength commingled, while we feel the grasp 

of iron ringers only. Ah ! lie still, 

We feel the love in God's firm touch when flesh 

And mind and heart lie silent under it. 

I saw the hand of Pain fall heavily 
On one whose faith was strong as ancient oaks, 
But one whose fragile life no vigor held 
More than the reed — a plaything of the winds ; 
And firmer grew the grasp inflexible, 
Until the frail life sighed its strength away. 
Then all who saw the depths of justice, love, 
And mercy fathomed for a reason, while 
One smiled without the Realm of Perfect Sight 
And said, "God's reasons lie not in the depths 
Of human understanding, but in heights 
Of divine conception, involving more 
Than ye on earth may know, nor should ye seek 
To know, but only to accept." 



28 



Dear heart, 
That wearied art with long, long suffering, 
And seest only more to take its place 
And sharper as the nerves grow tenderer, 
Drink deeper at the fount of patience; let 
Its cool draughts calm unrest that flows, a mad 
And fevered current, in thy veins. The soul 
That dwells within the fount will soothe thy life 
And whisper revelation's truth to come; 
For, heart, in this is paradox complete — 
That he who waits in patient ignorance 
Awakes in perfect knowledge. Does some voice 
Tell thee the time is long? Wait, wait, brave heart, 
Enduring 'til the throbbing life of pain 
Is done. 

Seems that yoke heavy which He told 
Us should be light? Yea, heart, but burdens are 
Not reckoned by the Master for their weight 
Upon the tender flesh, but for their load 
Upon the vital spirit, so He speaks 
Unto that vital life and says, "Ye shall 
Find rest unto your souls." The Father ne'er 
Forgets the tortured nerves, nor counts as naught 
The anguished music of those trembling chords, 
But rest is for the soul. 

Hast felt thyself 
Forsaken when the pain was hard to bear? 

29 



Tis then with soul to soul the Lord stands by 
And bears the hardest part Himself, although 
Thou mayst not see nor feel His presence by. 
How think you Laz'rus felt, the giant, Life, 
And giant, Death, their mighty bolts fierce hurled 
Unto the mortal end, and knowing well 
The battle's issue ? Ah ! what then of that 
All-loving Friend and Lord whose power had raised 
So many other men? Hast thought this one 
Whose sun of life had set and left but one 
Red streak on the horizon's brim — a thought 
That burned within the brain — cried not as yet 
The Lord Himself should cry, "All! 'why hast 

Thou 
Forsaken me ?' " Had Christ forsaken him ? 
Nay, nor will He forsake a single one 
Of you. Lean on the air invisible 
And know that He is in it. Though thou canst 
Not feel the thrilling Form, yet close He holds 
Thee in His arms, and will not let thee go, 
For love, for very love, because thy pain 
Is needful for thy perfecting. Why seek 
Release so soon? God's promise is to him 
Enduring steadfast to the end, and still 
'Neath all the purpling woe that brews to storms 
Above. No limit set on crucial tests 
Save dissolution only, so thou canst 
Not say, "To-day, to-morrow, and my soul 

30 



Shall leave its prison for a freer air." 
Wouldst try to change God's broader limit? 

Ah! 
Ye souls with whom discipling is pain 
And long endurance fellowship, none know 
So well as ye that for a service great 
As yours must strength and patience sink their roots 
Into the very Rock of Life, and drink 
Their nourishment from waters under it. 
No other souls have need of strength like yours, 
For these, released from trial for the rest 
Of night, have time to walk in the cool air 
At eve, to meet the living form of Joy, 
While ye at dawn or noon or night, must bide 
Forever in the furnace of your pain. 
Ah ! ye know well your need, then put forth 

strength, 
O souls of greater tests, and marvel not 
That ye must bear so much, but marvel that 
He chooses you to bear. 

In olden time 
Were three who walked unscathed amidst white 

flames, 
Because beside them walked One who is Lord 
Of elements, and since vast hosts have trod 
The flames, all with the same companionship. 

3i 



Is none a martyr save one whom the arm 
Of Fire encircles? Are not martyrs, too, 
They who lie long, long years in the white flames 
Of sickness, bound to their beds as to stakes, 
And still because God's way for them lies where 
A furnace burns intense, but hidden? Yea, 
And some are ye. Would miss your martyrdom, 
Afraid to try the flame? Come, courage, souls, 
God's hand controls the furnace of your pain 
To stay it when your life has had its pure 
Refining. Yea, and more, for harshest tongues 
Of flame can never drown the melody 
That trembles on His words, as by thy side 
And hand in hand, the Master whispers, "Child, 
Fear not, 'tis I, bear on." 

Didst dream at first 
And pray that death would end ere long the throb 
Of nerves, tossed as by summer winds is tossed 
The aspen's leaf, and rocked by sweep of storms 
And counter sweep, and twisted, torn, yet held 
As aspen's leaf in life? Most prayers God holds 
In secret chambers of His heart — the room 
Of worship, treasury of offering, 
But this? Is this one treasure, heart? What 

right 
Have souls to offer such? Could one of you 
Now stand and say, "My work is done and I 

32 



Would have my rest?" Thy rest from what? Ah! 

bear 
A little yet. The heart must not life's tide 
Cut off by sudden stop, but beat out throb 
By throb, on God's strict records numbered, known 
Alone to Him and thee. 

Our souls, dear heart, 
Are flowers, blooming ever in the air 
Of an infinite love, and some may bloom 
And pass in a day, but yet others must 
Preserve their sweetness, and for this must yield 
Themselves to crushing rollers 'til the life 
Is slowly shed in fragrance that shall last; 
Just as the jasmine blossoms may delight 
A fleeting moment and ephemeral 
Then pass away, but some rare buds allow 
Not winged sprites that in a sixty-breaths 
Of time have gone to bear their sweetness off, 
And so consent to maceration that 
The attar of jasmine may longer please 
The sense of men. 

Confess thy thoughts of life : 
Hast dreamed of happiness the portion here, 
And heaven bliss immortalized? Is all 
Of life a quick progression in the things 
That make for bliss, with ease on ease and joy 

33 



On joy and ecstasy on ecstasy, 

All ravishment and rapture, while we mount 

The golden ladder, rung on rung, 'til lost 

To sight in skies whose blue envelops joys 

Eternalized? Know, dreaming soul, thine is 

The pilgrim's progress, and outstretched lie field 

And moor and mount, all filled with terrors which 

Make men's hearts start without their place for fear, 

Ere faintest gleam from yonder Jasper Throne 

Shall break upon the groping sight. A dream, 

A vision life, and filled with phantasies? 

A zephyr's breath and day with music thrilled? 

A fluttering of rose leaves, then a sense 

Of perfumed air? Nay, heart, for life is more. 

Trace on Time's Record Book the service done 

By souls and know their life, and thus alone, 

For time is marked by deeds; a day may be 

A thousand years, its book of deeds possess 

A thousand leaves, if this was filled with good; 

A thousand years not e'en a day, its book 

Of deeds one whited blank, if empty these 

Have passed. Yea, life is long, fierce action, 

wrought 
In patient strength — who does or bears the best, 
He fullest is of life. 

Hast watched the skies 
Of life and thought the blue no broidery 

34 



Could have but that in silver, crimson, gold, 
And emerald ? Ah ! see the needle ply 
In blackness, tempest, and tornado; e'er 
Must these their portion add to make complete 
The glory of the whole, for detail is 
But ornament of shadow. Are the seas 
Of life ne'er swept but by the sporting waves 
Of joy, as they chase each other in play? 
Gaze on and see those waters dash their force 
Against the ships that ride them, leap in air 
To meet the storm, embrace its gloom, and fall 
Upon their beds to rise in greater strength 
And battle to the end. No life has place 
For stagnant skies or stagnant seas; then, heart, 
Let action rule the current of the soul 
(Though oft the body lies upon its bed) 
And sweep it onward, onward, 'til it meets 
The River in its course. 

Another's life 
Hast watched, and thought thine own the harder? 

Thou 
Art not concerned with this; to mortals it 
Is not given to weigh their lives in scales 
That balance perfectly — adjustment lies 
With God. Full often thoughts like this strike deep 
At Nature's sorest point and sink their shafts 
Into the vulnerable flesh and find 

35 



Their way to vital parts. The invalid 

Bound fast upon his couch, with sharp intent 

Bent to the problem, wonders why fresh life 

Throbs in the veins of one who walks the way 

Without, as free as the wild bird to find 

Its course, and never knowing aught of all 

The passionate purpose that sets its seal 

On him, and works its magic course in throb 

On throb of pain, save such ephemeral 

Impression as must come to all at sight 

Of tense and pallid features — portraiture 

Of suffering. And ever deeper sinks 

The blade of thought to bring to naught Pain's work 

Of love, and make thee feel that thine is lot 

The hardest. Not alone is pain, perchance, 

The portion, but the pain that seeks to bear 

Thee company because thou lackest close 

Companionship of earth and hast no life 

Near linked to thine; but thou, mistaking all 

The motive of thy sympathizer, canst 

See only bitter made more bitter, and 

Cry out that sharp and stinging pain is borne 

The hardest with no soul on thy account 

To feel distress — nor parent, child, nor one 

To whom the life draws nearer whispering: 

"Heart, this is pain to me," and here the plaint 

Is fixed in truth. 'Tis hard to have no soul 

To whom thou art most precious walking close 

36 



Beside thee down the deep, deep ways of pain, 

When feet that tingle with the constant sting 

Of nettles dread to take one other step, 

And hands that reach for help and quiver meet 

But thorns on ev'ry overhanging branch 

That promises support. Down all the steep, 

Rock-covered ways of agony one likes 

To feel the influence of fond caress 

And falling tear to soothe to calm repose 

The broken spirit. Is not the request 

But small ? "Dear Lord, I'll bear the pain, I'll bear 

It all, but grant me this one little thing — 

A breath of love to soothe it." Ever is 

It hard to lean on Him alone; though His 

The only presence that can give us peace, 

Humanity so potent is we fain 

Would grasp forms tangible, and pray our Lord 

To visit us in the person of one 

Held dear by human ties. The feeling is 

A form of nature common as the lips 

That plead, and He who made us dust will bear 

With human throbs, not for our sakes alone, 

But to uphold the love that stoopeth low 

To our infirmities. 'Tis hard that thou 

Shouldst be inflexibly locked in the arms 

Of Pain, with ev'ry sense of body dulled, 

Save only the fast feeling nerves, and see 

Another walk down Freedom's sunlit paths 

37 



And following some gilded dream of hope 

To sure fulfilment — hope that thou hast hid 

Behind the shadows of thy lot; or worse, 

Perchance, 'tis hard to feel the fetters drawn 

About thee, yet be pressed by some severe 

Necessity to labor for thy part, 

And drag thy irons to the daily task. 

And bear each morn the sting of nerves that fain 

Would be forever stilled, and find no rest 

At night, and yet with morn thy labors must 

Again pursue, subsistence for thy pains 

To earn and keep alive the aches and throbs 

Of life (O mockery of mockeries!), 

While yonder, fetterless, another moves, 

Thrilled with strength, and glad as the spring-bird 

For very living. But hush all the wild 

And bitter plaint ('tis this that robs the lot 

Of sweet), and thank thy Lord he chooses thee 

To bear, as one held worthy of a trust. 

Yea, heart, be glad for very living, too, 

Glad as the morning star that glows serene 

Between the bars of crimson sky, when dawn 

First beams from the lap of the night. Look up 

To the infinite heavens, whose repose 

Broods above weary spirits. Listen, heart, 

To the glad music of the spheres — a strain 

Too fine for souls not sensitive from pain 

To hear — at some lone hour when sleep has left 

38 



Thy eyes, and gazing out into the night 

And space illimitable, they behold 

Those limpid balls swing each in place, nor clash, 

Nor murmur, but each star accepting its 

Own fixed orbit, moves therein by day, 

By year, by century, and sings the march 

Of pure content. While greater lights move on 

Content, should lesser ones complain? Not one 

Of all the galaxy, breathed to its place 

By word supreme, gave forth a trembling note 

Of discord until mortals found their place, 

And made of earth the Star of Variance. 

Has Thought turned murmurer, and asked thee 
why 
Thy bark is caught within the maelstrom and 
Whirled in mad circles by the twisting waves, 
While on the gentle heave of quiet seas 
Another bark glides smooth and joyous on 
To its appointed haven? Stay this plaint, 
Nor mar with fretful murmurings the life 
That God is trying to perfect. Walk close 
Beside Him as He meets thee on the shore 
Of Galilean Sea within thy soul, 
Then ask him face to face, "And what shall this 
Man do?" The blue ripples will rhythmic bear 
His answer on and on to further seas, 
And far beyond the whirlpool that has caught 

39 



Thy barge within its swirlings, "What is that 
To thee?" What right have I, dear Lord, to ask 
Thy plan for any other? Is it not 
Sufficient thou hast planned for me? 

Would miss 
Your pain ? Nay, think what else to lose beside - 
A soul of finer finish. Does the vale 
Between the everlasting hills that shows 
Its solid green beneath white daisies blown 
Above, look to another as to thee? 
Are trills of mock-bird's song, that rhythmic stir 
On leaves of the oak which repeat their thrill 
In shadows on thy bed, as exquisite 
Of melody to any other as 
To thee? Are violets as sweet? Nay, some 
Are poets while they walk the world without, 
But all may poets be while bound to couch 
Of pain. Can one intoxicant with strength 
And caught in outer circles of life's whirl, 
Weave glory in each light and shade or hear 
Seraphic choirs in common sounds? Can such 
An one in sleep too deep for dreams behold 
The visions waiting on thy fragile rest? 
Are these e'er kissed by angels in their sleep, 
Or do they talk with God Himself in hours 
When all are held in silent rest but He 
And thou? Nay, bear the pain for poet's eye 

40 



And transformation's symmetry of soul. 

A mere block in the sculptor's hand may change 

To Psychic dream, yet feel no thrill of pain 

In transformation, but when God would bring 

A soul to perfectness, the chisel falls 

On spots so delicate that only He 

Can see and thou canst feel. 

Ye may not know 
The wherefore of your pains; this only doth 
Appear — the largest good to you, some dear 
One, or an enemy. What matter why ? 
Have ye, beloved, not enough to think 
Of how to bear? It is not given souls 
To know all things, but it is given each 
To bear its lot, and this for solace — back 
Of all is God. 

The order of events 
Has marked for each its correlate — for smiles 
Are tears, for joy is grief, for restful ease 
The throbbing pang, as Nature balances 
Her mounts with vales, her seas with continents, 
And day with night. Should life without the soul 
More beauty show than life within ? Nay, heart, 
The golden curtain of thy day is lined 
With sable, as the curtain of the earth 
Anon hangs dark or light, and now thy dreams 

4i 



Are 'neath the shadow of the darker fold. 

Couldst dream as well in sunlight ? Ah ! thy bed 

Is drawn within the shadows now to let 

Thee dream. But one may say that dreams are dark 

If born in shadow. Nay, more marvelous, 

For He who paints thy visions dwells in shade 

When thou art there. 

If not within the life 
Is found for ease and pain an even scale, 
The correlate must be without it, and 
If pain thy portion be in balancing 
Another's ease, why question, heart? If some 
Must suffer, why not thou? Yea, take the part 
In thankfulness that ease has come to one 
If not to thee. But yesterday there lay 
A birdling on my hearth, sore bruised by fall 
From nest above, nor soothing took, nor food, 
But gasped for hours (in bird-life long), while that 
Same hour his fellows dipped their graceful wings 
In the clear ether, circling joyous, taught 
By mother-bird to fly. Must bird-lives have 
Their correlate of ease and pain while we 
Have only ease? 

But one may say, "I'd bear 
My own pain, howsoever sharp — the pain 
That comes from some mistake or sin of mine — 

42 



But this comes from another's error, and 

Transmitted unto me by one I know 

Not, nor have loved, and long ere they that gave 

Me life were born, this soul poured in the veins 

Of a child the bitter cup of its pains, 

And went into the infinite to find 

Its place, nor can my suffering weave joy 

Or woe in the unalterable lot. 

Ah ! heart, hast never learned that souls must drink 

The wine poured out for them in cup that holds 

The dregs another left, nor once may stop 

To dwell upon the bitterness, but drink 

'Til all is drained, and see that no lees left 

Embitter cup that passes from their hand? 

Ah! there, dear heart, is all the bitterness — 

The passing from thy hand, when the cold eyes 

Of Dumb Reproach without the future rise 

To plead their cause. But if thou mayst not stay 

Transmission of thy part, then see there goes 

With pain a spirit beautified by peace. 

Thy pain thou mayst not give to all, but such 

Alone as spring from flesh and blood of thine, 

But patience, grace, and strength are flowers that 

wrap 
Their tendrils round the souls of all who know 
Thee, and from these extend to other souls, 
And on their sweetness trail and sink their roots 
In fertile soil and bear a fragrant bloom. 

43 



Then, heart, when all is said the tale of life 
Is soon spelled out. Yea, while we close our ears 
To miss the bitter climax, inner sense 
Reveals the climax past, for time waits not 
Upon our fears, but ever bears us on 
In flight more swift than that of storm-swept birds 
To our appointed end. Why fret while hours 
With pinions for the swiftest flight, which rest 
Not neither day nor night, make unseen course 
Through unseen air to unseen worlds? A few 
Strokes of the mystic pinion, and no more 
Thy pains will live to fret thee, but some spring 
Of action God designed by these to put 
In motion, lives, and starts fresh springs each day 
In other souls, and on through centuries 
It moves, nor knows a limit save the end 
Of time, when days shall mingle with the one 
Vast aeon of eternity as fresh 
Drops mingle with the endless sea, and there, 
Transformed, will meet thee in that Everness 
In potent form of beauty and of love. 
If pain of yours, wreathed in the blossomings 
Of patience, cause some spring of love to move 
In other souls — the beggar feeds, or clothes 
The needy, shows the rich man and the poor 
In loving fellowship, awakes one soul 
To smile into its Maker's eyes and meet 
His smile, then know your pain is no vain thing, 

44 



Nor need you envy him whose portion is 

To drink the wine of vital energy, 

And stand within the forum masterful 

In active strength — they serve as well who lie 

And suffer. 

Now, again of Lazarus : 
What matter that Death claim his own ? As naught, 
And yet as much, for God's great heart was moved 
To sympathy of tears. So when He plans 
For thee. Though pain is woven in thy lot — 
The very woof and web of life — and this 
Enough for thee to know, yet often as 
The night watches find Him and thee alone, 
With the harsh garment of thy pain drawn close 
About thee, then the tears of God fall so 
That thou canst almost feel them on thy face. 
Did Jesus weep for Lazarus alone? 
Nay, heart, behold His tears for thee. Draw close, 
Look face to face into the watching eyes 
And see the heart of love; breathe low, and miss 
No note of all the throbbing tenderness 
That beats above thee; lose no whisper as 
He bids thee follow while he leads from vale 
To peak, from peak to summit, far upborne 
From regions of our grosser sight, as once 
On Tabor three disciples stood. Wilt tell 
Thy nurse a pleasant dream has soothed thee ? Yea, 

45 



The dreams of one who follows where He leads 
Are ever pleasant, nor are all His mounts 
Called Calvary. 

Think not, dear heart, that I 
Forget the harder part, nor say, 'This one 
Has never suffered." Nay, I have, nor can 
Forget my fretting 'neath His rod, yet when 
The iron Hand inflexible has lain 
Upon me, nor would loose its clasp for cry 
Of mine, I then have felt the throbbing love 
That held the Hand in steadfastness and soothed 
My spirit, until grown submissive, all 
Mad fretting ceased, and with my Lord I climbed 
The heights to Tabor, and there prayed for strength 
To reach the higher point of Calvary, 
For Tabor is half-way upon the road, 
But Calvary its end. 

I count myself 
Unworthy to e'en touch the fevered brow 
Of one of you, who, calm in spirit, now 
Lies kissed by Pain, and patient in that clasp 
Inflexible, long years await surcease 
That comes with death alone, yet feels no throb 
Of murmur, but as something treasured close 
You press your pangs and take them for a bond 
Most precious, knowing that the touch of pain 

46 



Is but the kiss of God. Your couch is ground 
So hallowed such as I, whose suffering 
Has stirred a harsher note, dare not approach 
You nearer than to touch the draperies 
About your bed and kiss their sacred folds 
In thankfulness that such as you can prove 
The blessedness of pain. Could any count 
It small in you to rest in silence and 
Serenity within the steadfast Arms, 
Seraphic radiance upon your brow 
And smile of joy upon your lips, with ears 
Deaf to discordant notes in tortured frame, 
And hearing only the soft lullaby 
That God ne'er sings but to the one He holds 
Thus close? Nay, heart, by the tierce pains of Him, 
Who since no higher service He could give 
To God and men gave suffering, we know 
Full well its mightiness, and must believe 
That He who gave it will receive it as 
A service glorious as all men do 
Or long to do. But this is asked to make 
The service fit — the love that takes it as 
It would another task and ever bears 
In patient faithfulness. And here the soul 
Should wing its flight through all infinitude, 
Nor rest till at the throne of Power it cries 
For strength, nor rise 'til strength is given — 
a strength 

47 



many pains prevail. 

3 Master of all pains grant 1 c 

rhec I : . . - . 
- fierce thai s their wa 
- life in J 

Peace, be si 

e of those an 

-stirred rand a form 

3 f sin : ' -. 

Di . gs, s t g c eied by 
When G chose oe 

^ H m 
.: H: . se] ain i 

":.- . gent T. -..:- 

But choke Hi 

— ■ t T-: : _-. 

— 7 And s t ■ r :. pain 

rhc 5 a fine 9e ~::ed 

Qnd for } : r if 
N I Bis nrif 

Ihe gony of flesh this k 

eas: : : y : ur= What hei ists 
■ : : . . .'. - "• 
On I t etc gdess Recoi 

:re. 

- 



Of all the qualities that move in men 
And thrill to action, ever hath been love 
Esteemed the strongest, most to motive power 
That works in God akin. Could He whose heart 
Is source of love and makes it well of all 
The best in us, have other fountain-spring 
When comes our turn to have the body, heart, 
And life wrought in the infinite plan ? Ah ! 
Your pains are tokens of dilection, for 
Your life is ruled by One who loves, and you 
Of that great love are object. Calls the bird 
Unto its mate in the fathomless depths 
Of the blue, and in rifted rock, far down 
The sunless cliff, a flower springs to view 
Of Him alone who walks abroad at eve 
In canon solitudes; in mother's arms 
A babe coos to the smiles that woo it, and 
All by the Father's love o'ershadowed, 
As thou. Tis sweet to be with babe and bird 
And blossom object and delight of love 
Like this. Hast led thy feet o'er rough-hewn paths 
And fields where thorns have torn ? Well, what of 

that? 
Wouldst thou have missed the love that led thee 

thence ? 

"He lieth sick whom Thou dost love." Swift 
borne 

49 



By angels, the sad message finds thy Lord 
Ere consciousness has caught the sting of pain 
From the all-faithful nerves. Perchance, as once, 
The Master tarries. What of that? Shall He 
Whose power inherent holds the universe 
To its balance and swings above it heaven 
Of perfectness, to which the motive moves 
In all its worlds, in which their promise ends, 
Now speed his steps to stay thy pains? And yet, 
If best for thee, dear heart, how swifter than 
The storm's breath would the Lord of Healing find 
His place beside thee. 

No marvel was it 
The man of Bethany must walk alone 
To the River's brink and alone sink down 
In the engulfing depths. The Master looked 
With loving eyes down all the centuries 
At the long, long train of suffering folk 
Who should give body, hope, and life to serve 
Him in their turn, and said, "For these I must 
Abide, that they may know the love that works 
Through pain." He tarried then, dear heart, to 

teach 
Thy lesson and that other needful one 
Of strengthened faith through miracle of life 
Restored, and motive power of both was love — 
Love that in faithfulness must ever hold 

50 



Its purpose greater than the pain in which 
It worketh. Yet the very record shows 
The tenderness that yearns to all to whom 
The Lord appoints discipling that works 
In the sensitive flesh. It had not so 
Appealed to thee to say that Lazarus 
Was sick, but "he Thou lovest" makes as thine 
The message, for the Master loves thee, too, 
And thou as Lazarus must wear the cross 
Of pain, nailed fast to the pitiless weight. 
'Tis for the well to bear their cross, the sick 
Must wear it, pinioned to its outstretched arms 
In lines of unpitying, last strength. 

The worship of song is fragrance of joy 
From flowers that bloom in the soul's glad day, 
The worship of prayer is incense exhaled 
From hearts that burn choicest spice of life 
In offering, but worship of the pain 
That never ceaseth is the offering 
Of life itself, and this the Master asks 
From some of you. 

'Tis strange we should mistake 
For evidence of hate the faithful strokes 
Of love. Not thus the feeling to one who 
Administers the part of parent here. 
A moment may the faithful rod seem mark 

5i 



Of hate, but when the mother's arms once clasp 
Us to her throbbing heart, we must believe 
That love is there, and so the passionate 
Caress return, and on the anguished breast 
The curtain of sleep falls on our small hurt,, 
And we know naught but that an angel kissed 
Us in our dreams and left upon our cheek 
A tear, then wake to smile into the eyes 
That watch above us. and a deeper sense 
Within us stirs. Yet when God's hand doth hold 
The rod in love. deep. warm, transforming, we 
In bitterness complain that yonder one. 
Whose life moves in a golden dream, is child 
Of love., and we. to whom he draws so close, 
Forsaken ones. Ah ! heart, thy reasoning 
Is false, but lay aside all reason, and 
Then feel his love. Some things we know by 

thought. 
But not the deeper things that link to God. 
"When souls reach out and grasp the Infinite 
There is no room for thought, but only love 
That feels, and knows because it feels. 

Last night 
I sent my soul into the universe 
Of earth and sea and sky to find the law 
That underlies the cosmic sweep of worlds 
And all their innerness. "'Oh! tell me. soul," 



I said, "Why earth, this rocky mass that sprang 

From chaos into symmetry, and bound 

By the illimitable deep, sweeps on 

To cosmic harmony in circles not 

Seen but appointed, was breathed to life 

By Word Omnipotent? And why those lights 

That burn about it, but yet gravitate 

In other circles, swung to melody, 

All threading limited and certain paths 

In the illimitable, boundless heavens?" 

And soon my soul returned and answered, "Love 

Is law of these." "But soul, if love is law 

Of stars and suns, find now the law that made 

And governs lesser things." And then my soul 

Replied, "No flower nor fish nor bird nor beast 

Nor man but lives by law of love, deep writ 

In Mind Omniscient." "One thing more, O soul, 

The law that governs suffering," and straight 

My soul sped to the heights of Calvary 

And sought the form of Pain Supreme, as hung 

That trembling passion of eternal Love 

In sensate shape, and felt far sharper than 

Mere mortals feel the shafts that ran through nerve 

And flesh, for here was strength of feeling keyed 

To sentient power of God. My soul looked long 

Into the yearning passion of the eyes, 

As pinioned to the cross in lines of steel 

And pillowed on the thorn-set crown, there hung 

53 



The Form Supreme, the living, dying God, 
The image of Eternal Love outlined 
In consummated, gathered force of pain 
That man could bear not in this world alone 
But rather that that in eternal woes 
Of the abyss awaited him, and now- 
Expressed in concentrated agonies 
Of hell, and taken into nerve and sense 
Of God, suspended in the midday air 
Of midnight gloom, no artist's dream of woe, 
But living form of Love in sacrifice. 
Say not that sight of Love has ne'er appeared, 
But only concept in the poet's mind — 
An outline framed by the sensitive soul; 
For Love hath once appeared, yet in no lines 
Of unimpassioned beauty, but the strong, 
Impressioned, passionate outlines of life 
In suffering. Xo need to tell thee now 
The answer that my soul brought back to me, 
Xo need to whisper now of law that weaves 
Itself in fabric of thy pain, for woof 
Of Christ's fierce agony is woof of thine — 
The love that weaves to perfecting in web 
Of suffering. Then falter not, but bear, 
Beloved, bear on to the hidden end — 
The end whose unapparence gives to faith 
Its golden glow — nor pray the Father that 
He send to thy side the angel of Ease. 
But the angel of Strength. 

54 



MAY 18 WW 



i* BR AKV op 




